Marisa Abela in Back to Black (Dean Rogers/Focus Features)

In director Sam Taylor-Johnson’s film of the late British singer/songwriter Amy Winehouse (portrayed by a go-for-broke Marisa Abela), Amy describes herself as an “old-school girl in modern times,” words that could also apply to this traditional—at its heart—biopic. Taylor-Johnson floods the film with covers of Winehouse’s too-brief repertory, convincingly sung by Abela, and the music of Britpop and Lauryn Hill, all of which definitely establishes the early aughts era. Speaking of old school, Winehouse here, as she did in life, counts among her idols singers Dinah Washington, Ella Fitzgerald, and Sarah Vaughan. Perhaps more tellingly, Matt Greenhalgh’s script has the structure and the focus of a certain 1960s musical—torch singer done wrong by her caddish man (Funny Girl, anyone?)—by centering the narrative on Winehouse’s giddy romance and turbulent marriage to Blake Fielder-Civil.

The filmmakers’ risk of placing this stormy relationship front and center actually pays off, thanks to the palpable chemistry between Abela and Jack O’Connell as Fielder-Civil. When Amy and Blake meet for the first time in a pub before her career takes off, they take their time building up the playful, flirtatious banter. More importantly, Taylor-Johnson gives Abela many moments for Amy to become infatuated and smitten—you see her falling in love with this rake. Whether she’s the dutiful daughter or the drunken hellraiser, the transitions are smooth; the screenplay connects the dots from Amy’s early days performing in pubs to headlining at Glastonbury. Unlike a lot of biopics that speed through their subjects’ lives, this has a sharper focus. However, it doesn’t completely sidestep tropes. Guitar in hand, Amy miraculously composes a song within seconds, and in maybe the most incredulous moment, Blake introduces her to the Shangri-las’ “Leader of the Pack.” 

If at first viewers think that Abela’s singing merely mimics Winehouse, or worst, that she’s performing karaoke, that impression fades away. The actress blends Winehouse style with her own interpretation of the singer’s songs, of which there are many. It’s almost equal parts musical numbers to drama.

Though not completely sanitized, the movie soft pedals Winehouse’s well-reported bouts with addiction. Here the blame for her use of hard drugs firmly rests on Fielder-Civil, as it did in Asif Kapadia’s 2015 revelatory documentary Amy, where Winehouse’s father, Mitchell, also pointed his finger at Fielder-Civil for introducing his daughter to class A drugs. (Brief scenes of Amy drinking from a bottle in the rain or staggering home drunk down a dark cobblestone street recall another 1960s film, one on the dangers of rapid fame and pharmaceuticals, Valley of the Dolls. This is a case where a little goes a long way.) With its abundance of archival footage and interviews, Amy can’t help but be more insightful and in depth than a feature film. 

Though Fielder-Civil’s assault charge and his time in prison are acted out, the storyline glosses over the singer’s drug arrest in 2007. One moment of triumph is depicted when Amy sings “Rehab” in the wee early hours, London time, via satellite for the televised 2008 Grammy Awards. What’s not mentioned: She was denied a visa to enter the United States to perform at the Los Angeles ceremony because of her rap sheet. She also faced an assault charge in England. Nor is there a reenactment of or reference to her disastrous concert performance in Belgrade, just a month before her death in July 2011, where she sat down on stage, refusing to sing. Nor is there an enabler in sight, with the exception of Blake. 

However, the filmmakers don’t know exactly where or how to end the film. The closing moments come off anti-climatically, almost like a shrug—Winehouse and Fielder-Civil divorce, she moves into a new home, and, for a period of time, she remains sober. On the one hand, this telling refrains from painting her as solely a victim or having her death at age 27 overshadow her talent. But the sense of loss of a budding artist isn’t as harshly or viscerally felt as it was in Amy.